His Last Choice
by Squeak the Mouse
Summary: Sherlock had saved John and Mary, but at a terrible cost. Mycroft delivers the news that will ultimately rip him from his comfortable life as a detective, possibly forever. How this happens will depend on Sherlock's choice. A missing scene between Appledore and the finale of 'His Last Vow'. WARNING-There are spoilers for series 3.
1. His Last Choice

His Last Choice

**Hi! I thought perhaps I'd better explain the logic behind this story. Between Appledore and the plane, something must have happened and I think Mycroft must know about it. It's not that I think he'd carry out the threat he promises in this, it's that he needed to make Sherlock scared so he'd go on the mission and was therefore out of the way and out of his protection. I think without this threat, Sherlock would simply have told Mycroft that he wasn't going because, well, he's Sherlock. Anyway, there's the logic. Enjoy! **

**XXX**

Sherlock strolled down the main corridor of his Mind Palace. Usually, he had to run in order to reach the information he needed quickly; but now he had all the time in the world. He thought of all the places he could visit... John and Mary's wing? No, not yet. He would just be torturing himself. His experiments? Maybe, although it would seem pointless if he couldn't do any at this moment in time. Redbeard? Yes, he'd take Redbeard for a walk through his mind.

He had just found Redbeard (who had been wandering in the room where he documented the two hundred and forty three different types of tobacco ash) when a familiar voice broke his thoughts.

"Sherlock, I need to talk to you."

The detective snapped his eyes open to be greeted with his dull, bare cell. And more annoyingly Mycroft.

"What do you want?"

Mycroft glared back at his brother. "Sit up and stop being childish; you know perfectly well what I want."

Sherlock swung his lanky legs around so he was sat on the edge of the rock-hard bed. Not that that bothered him since he hadn't been sleeping much.

"I take it you're here to discuss when I can go back to Baker Street."

"And what makes you so certain that we'll return you to Baker Street?"

"The fact that I've been held in solitary confinement for three weeks suggests that there have been discussions about me that have required negotiations since the Government isn't that slow. Also, I have not had access to a lawyer so my case isn't going to trial therefore I should be released without charge."

The British Government gave a humourless laugh.

"I'm right aren't I?"

"No."

"No?"

"Well, partly. You are correct in your deduction that this case will not be going to trial as it is a matter far too... sensitive for the public courts.

"Sensitive?" Then the answer hit Sherlock like lightening. "You've lied to everyone about what happened."

"Not everyone, just the general public. The official story is that Magnussen committed suicide. We decided it would be more prudent to use this story rather than the killed-in-a-robbery story we normally use since everybody knows Appledore is one of the most secure buildings in the country."

"So nobody knows I shot him?"

"Nobody except those who were present and Mrs Watson."

Sherlock's brain kicked into action as he searched for the solution to this puzzle Nobody thought he was guilty therefore there wasn't going to be a public backlash if he was released and there was no trial so he couldn't be imprisoned. If that was the case, why was Mycroft looking so smug?

"This must mean I'm going home."

Mycroft sighed, making Sherlock automatically clench his fists. "Honestly Sherlock, you were always the stupid one."

The younger man leapt to his feet. Glaring into his brother's cold eyes he growled, "I am not stupid. Tell me what's happening."

The British Government looked Sherlock up and down then smirked. Sherlock knew that he looked like a prat in the clothes the prison wardens had so 'kindly' lent him on his arrival but he didn't care. If Mycroft didn't tell him when he would see John and Mary again he'd batter the bastard to death with his own umbrella. To Sherlock's' disgust Mycroft remained stoic when faced with his furious glare, his eyes remaining as cold as ice.

"Sit down you stupid little boy," Mycroft finally said, "And I'll tell you what is going to happen."

Sherlock sat down.

"You are going to remain here for another three weeks," he continued, "Then you will be put on a plane bound for Eastern Europe where you will be sent on a mission for MI6 which will result in your death within six months."

Sherlock's brain skidded to a halt. Death? No. He couldn't die; he had so many things to do. The Watson's were having a baby; he needed to be there for them. And Molly... He couldn't die. Not now.

"What if I say no?"

The same cold laugh as before. "Well, the Government will have you... removed."

So he had two choices, neither were desirable, but he had to pick one. Being sent to Eastern Europe would eventually result in capture, torture, death and having his body disposed of in such a manner that it would never be seen again. Being killed now would mean the end would be quicker, yet this would mean that his body could be buried so that John, Mary and maybe Molly could visit his grave. He couldn't forget how John had cried over his grave and how much it had helped him to mourn and move on.

"Mycroft, send in your best gunman. Just kill me now."

"Sherlock, you seem to be missing the point. You are going on that mission."

"Why is this so important? If you kill me now I'll be out of your way! Isn't that what you want?"

"You need to know how much you've damaged the Government. Magnussen was one of our most valuable assets-"

"Asset?" Sherlock thought that a strange word to describe the most sickening criminal he'd ever encountered.

"Yes Sherlock, an asset. The items he printed in his newspapers occupied the publics' mind; they would discuss the affairs, the scandals, the conspiracies and that kept them satisfied. This meant that they would not probe into our affairs so our job became easier."

"You allowed him to ruin innocent peoples' lives just to make your job easier?"

"Yes."

"In that case, there is no way I'm doing the MI6 mission."

"Very well, but Doctor Watson and his wife won't thank you."

Sherlock felt like a cold hand was clasped around his heart. Mycroft had ordered the murders of hundreds of people so two more wouldn't make any difference to him. Fear spiked at his stomach as he stammered," You... you're using them as lev... leverage."

"Yes. A simple phone call and they will be dead within ten minutes."

His stomach contorted with fear, his mouth became bone dry and a cold sweat broke on his brow. There was in fact one choice, and he had to take it.

"Fine, I'll go."

Although Sherlock was looking at his bare feet he could _feel _Mycroft's smirk cut through the air.

"I'm delighted you'll take the job. I'll see you in three weeks." The British Government walked to the cell door, rapped three times with his umbrella, and the door was swiftly opened.

Sherlock buried his face in the thin pillow.


	2. His Last Chance

His Last Chance

**So this was originally going to be a one-shot, but then I wondered what Mycroft had done after that conversation and came up with this**

**XXX**

Mycroft continued along the dank corridor of the prison, back straight, idly swinging his umbrella, exactly how members of the British Government should walk. It showed that he had grace and dignity which were two things that Sherlock had not showed... no, not now. He needed to wait until the piercing eyes of others who longed to catch the chink in his armour were safely far behind.

The car was waiting for him outside and it looked distinctly out of place in the dingy car park. It was so aristocratic, so efficient so... Sherlock. No! Not now!

"Driver, Pall Mall," he curtly ordered as he got in whereupon the car sped away to join the evening traffic. Mycroft leant back on the plump leather seats with a look of trepidation towards his assistant who was absorbed in texting on her Blackberry. Good, he could not face any business matters at the minute no matter how important it was for him to speak to the Argentine Ambassador or arrange a meeting with the German Chancellor. He just needed to concentrate on getting home.

After dismissing not-Anita for the day he took the lift to his flat, opened the door, and collapsed on the sofa. Sherlock. Now was the time to think about him. The little boy with his pirate hat and dog. The sullen teenager with his experiments. The young student with his drugs. The consulting detective with his successful work. The man going to die.

He had tried to get him released, arguing that Sherlock was a force for good with a powerful mind who could be put to use solving crimes in London. He reminded everyone how Sherlock had stopped Moriarty, the most dangerous threat to the Government at the time and how he had foiled the plot to blow up Parliament. This was to no avail; the vote concluded that Sherlock was to be sent on the mission.

Mycroft stepped across the rug to the gilded mirror that hung above the mantelpiece to look at his own pale face. What had Sherlock seen when he had glared at him? A man who did not care.

"You should see me now dear brother," he whispered.

Mycroft knew that he had to be the one to deliver the news, that it would be difficult... yet he was not expecting that. The raw emotions of Sherlock who betrayed his own sociopathic nature had startled Mycroft. And the refusal; why did he have to be so stubborn? There was no other choice but to use John and Mary as leverage since nothing else would work. He had hated himself for doing that since John and Mary had been good to his little brother; but what choice did he have? He could not let sentiment cloud his thoughts as they were of no use. Sherlock needed to get on that plane under the impression that his friends lives were in danger so he would do the mission and not just wander off like it was clear he was going to do.

Then Mycroft decided to do something he had not done for nearly two decades. Until that moment it had been too painful to confront the past and it would be too painful to look back on this in the future. It was going to be painful now but he needed to do it. He sped to the cabinet, grabbed a leather bound book which he took back to the sofa. This was his last chance to remember the time when he had been a good big brother.

He flicked open the book to find himself confronted with his five year old brother playing chess at the fireside with a twelve year old Mycroft. They looked so happy and normal. It was obvious that the two of them had been oblivious to the camera as they both wore a look of deep concentration. Yet they were smiling. Mycroft had not smiled properly in years.

The next photo was Sherlock playing in the garden with Redbeard. It was slightly blurred as they were both running but the smile on Sherlock's face was clear. He loved that dog, adored it even, to the extent that he could not bear to be apart from him when he was sent to boarding school. Mycroft remembered the day when a fifteen year old Sherlock had returned home for Christmas and cried when he found that Redbeard had been put down.

"Caring is not an advantage," he had said. Mycroft winced at the memory. He had been so harsh; he had begun to be a bad big brother.

He continued looking through the pictures, giving no heed to the tears falling down his cheeks. Birthdays, Christmas' and Summer Holidays' were all documented here forever, snapshots of what might have been.

The final picture of the album brought fresh tears to his eyes. It was him in his early teens giving Sherlock a piggy back; Mycroft in a battered blue jumper, Sherlock in a pirate hat. It looked like whoever had taken the photo had caught Sherlock mid-laugh as he was smiling so much Mycroft could see all his pearly white teeth. The teenage Mycroft was not even looking at the camera, instead looking up at the little boy clinging to his back like a monkey out of the corner of his eye. There had been a time when he cared.

What happened? Well, he went to university and then he became involved in politics and was offered one of the most prestigious positions in the British Government. There he had learnt secrecy, diplomacy and how not to care, which you needed in his job. He had devoted himself to his work and was now counting the cost.

Sherlock... his own little brother. He couldn't go... but he had to. Mycroft closed the album, buried his face in his hands then made an attempt to compose himself. There was nothing he could do now.

Mycroft sprung to his feet as he began to pace length of the living room. Why hadn't Sherlock done as he was told? He'd told the stupid boy to leave Magnussen alone and he'd gone and shot him in the head! It was his own fault!

No... it wasn't. At least not all his fault. Sherlock needed to have the complexities of Magnussen explained and as his older brother it was his duty to do that. But he couldn't have done that because the rift between them had grown too wide all because he'd failed as a big brother.

So this was it. He'd lied to his own brother to cover up his own neglect.

Mycroft couldn't compose himself that evening.


End file.
